


Service Numbers

by novadiablo



Series: Exit Wound [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Almost Drowning, Army, Bullet wound, It's always the bloody Thames, John's Scar, M/M, Tattoo, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novadiablo/pseuds/novadiablo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thought he knew everything about John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a tidbit that wouldn't leave my head. Possibility of making it into a series viable, let me know in the comments if you want me to :) Also this is like pre- or alternative- 2x03, ~ambiguous timeline fun~

It took Sherlock Holmes 732.75 days to find out everything there was to know to John Watson, which was something of a shock to him. His very first estimate when the man had walked into Bart’s lab was three days. The estimate had risen to 29.5, and then to 40.7. After that, the numbers increased exponentially every time he discovered something new and unexpected about John, but this was entirely unbelievable. He truly couldn’t understand this.

How had he never seen John’s tattoo?

He’d seen his friend shirtless – hell, naked – before; had inspected his scar. How had he never seen it? The faded black said it was at least two and a half years old and as he placed it on John’s timeline in his Palace it was clear that it was done just after John had finished the last of his physiotherapy, not long before he’d met Sherlock.

The front of John’s left shoulder was a mess, truly. The scarring travelled from mid clavicle all the way to his shoulder cap, and crept up to curl near his acromion bone – the bullet had exploded on impact, spilling shrapnel everywhere, and the original surgery had been rudimentary at best, which meant that subsequent surgeries had to occur after the men who saved him had reached a proper hospital. Sherlock knew that the bullet had all but shattered John’s coracoid process, leaving him to have reconstructive surgery on the area as well. The scarring was a mess.

Somehow – _somehow_ – Sherlock had never seen the exit wound. _Somehow_ , because if he had he would have seen the eight numbers printed across the neat scar tissue in tidy traditional typewriter font, the exact same as those embossed into the dog tags John still wore around his neck. They weren’t perfectly even with John like this, bent almost in half and skin raised in goose bumps, but Sherlock automatically calculated the degree of stretching and reversed and came to the conclusion that it was done well.

The digits were swiftly obscured by an all too familiar bright orange blanket, and then a shirt, supplied by Lestrade who looked in good spirits from his relief. John had been in the Thames for only 122 seconds, but it was enough to send the entire homicide squad into squawks, so Sherlock and Lestrade had been the ones to haul him out, and then Sherlock had pushed him towards the paramedics who had been there in case of a stand-off (or near drowning). They’d stripped off his shirt and Sherlock hadn’t moved since. He took in all of the physical information necessary and then shut down his other bodily processes to process the information.

_Main observation_ : John had a tattoo and it was his service number, and it was printed across his exit wound on his left shoulder in monospaced traditional British typeface, and Sherlock hadn’t known it was there _. Extraneous observations_ : homicide team noticed and all became very interested, with a mix of both gratitude and arousal in reactions (Anna Greenwald (forensic analyst) negative reaction: severely anti-war). _Personal observations_ : surprise, irritation, pride, lust (for knowledge or for John? _Both?_ ), extreme interest, anger (minute), betrayal (minute), desire to punch Sally Donovan’s face (high).

John turned around after the tattoo was hidden and Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts, knowing he was expected to talk. “Lestrade, the kidnapper will be at his studio in Brixton by now, I’d expect you’d want to get a move on. Come, John.”

Lestrade sputtered and Donovan – of all people – spoke up. “He’s just gone for a drown in the Thames; he needs a checkup!”

“It’s hardly the first time it’s happened. He’s fine, the paramedics aren’t even glancing at him,” Sherlock took off his Belstaff and popped it onto John’s shoulders, eyes catching a droplet that trickled down behind his ear. Interesting thing to notice in particular, he thought. Ignoring Donovan’s voice entirely, he flicked his head towards the road. “Come on John. I need your expertise for something.”

“A new case?” John chattered as he stepped forward, wrapping the Belstaff around him, the borrowed shirt clinging to his clammy skin.

“Of a sort,” Sherlock smirked, and together they walked towards the road.

_Interesting_.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a little bit more. I think I might make this a series.

The thing was that John didn’t talk about the war.

Ever.

He woke up trembling and gasping at or around 3am at least twice a week, where he’d quickly crumble into badly contained tears and fall back to sleep within twenty minutes 83.2% of the time and that probability rose to 92.7% if Sherlock happened to play a calming melody on his violin. John’s favourite was Gideon Klein’s lullaby, so Sherlock played that most often, even if he despaired the lack of partnering piano.

John would go and see his therapist on and off only when his dreams increased to four nights a week, which Ella hated because she believed consistency was key, but then she though Sherlock was a bad influence so she was obviously moronic. Maybe he talked about the war to her, but probably not, he likely just gave her the bare facts in hopes that she could provide a magic cure. Usually, she couldn’t, and it would take a case with plenty of physical exertion for John’s sleeping patterns to return to normal.

He would also go out with his old army mates once every 3 to 3.75 months, usually to a central London pub a bit out of his way. He usually refused to offer up any more information than that on the grounds that Sherlock would follow him and try to deduce his friends, but from the way John’s mood was be affected on his return – subdued, quiet – Sherlock had deduced that John didn’t particularly enjoy the evenings out.

John had pulled rank all of twice since Sherlock had known him and both in circumstance it had been necessary to the case, not because it made John happy. His dress uniform had never come out of the press packet John had arrived with and his fatigues remained meticulously folded under his jeans in his drawer. His medals remained in the box that his discharge and medical papers also sit in tidily under his bed. John wore his dog tags not with pride, but as a reminder.

Of what?

A lot of soldiers spoke with pride about their war stories. Some of them you couldn’t get to shut up, really, which even Sherlock had the common sense to allow to happen. Often, they were interesting, like viewing a slice of a different life. Sherlock had heard the term FUBAR but refused to apply it to John; John who was able to giggle and smile and laugh and yell. But John wouldn’t talk about the war, never acted proud of what he had done, so why did he have a tattoo of his service numbers on his shoulder?

 

 

 

It was four days before Sherlock brought it up. He’d been stewing on it since he’d seen it, of course, but he had been busy closing up the twist in the case that had prevented him from asking John about it straight away and John had been busy his new job as a part time lecturer in combat medicine that Mycroft had set up for him at Lestrade’s request. John knew nothing of it, of course, but Sherlock imagined Lestrade bemoaning to his brother some night in the recent past after John had spent another evening at the pub with the inspector complaining about the locum work he had.

Sherlock was surprised when John took it – more talking about the war? He was so surprised, in fact that he snuck in to one of the lectures about two weeks after John began to quickly find that while John was perfect at discussing the exact conditions and problems that are faced in such a line of work he cleverly kept any personal experience out of it and still managed to make the lecture interesting. He ended up staying the entire way through just to watch John talk, but slipped out with the crowd before his friend could see him.

John’s spirits had been reasonably high of late. He was currently relaxing in his chair reading a crime novella that was written by a long previous client, while Sherlock reclined in his own seat to pluck at his violin. He had been staring into space for the last 32.7 minutes, but he exited his Mind Palace to speak to John.

“When did you get it?” He asked, his voice light but questioning and his eyes piercing into John. He watched as John’s entire body froze and his eyes stopped skimming the page completely. He observed with a detached fascination at the man’s fingers transitioned from a ruddy pink to white as his grip tightened on the book. John didn’t answer, even though Sherlock knew he could feel his gaze.

“John?” he prompted, and the muscles in John’s jaw worked as he stared ruthlessly at his book.

“Don’t, Sherlock,” he said, and his voice was low with warning, like thunder in a dark sky before a storm. He didn’t look up at Sherlock but his eyes were cloudy, threatening, the same way they transformed when he was holding a gun or a club. Sherlock didn’t speak again so he settled back into his book, still on edge, cheerful demeanour having left him. They were silent for another five minutes before Sherlock tried again.

“John?”

John closed his book, stood and walked out of the living room in complete silence. He didn’t even glance back at Sherlock, closing the door quietly and making no noise on the stairs except for that one creaky one. Sherlock stared into the distance, re-entering his Mind Palace to process the information.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been months since John was cleared by his physiotherapist to start doing physical training and John had done nothing about it, so when he came home the day after shower with dirty clothes in his bag, Sherlock wondered what he was doing at the Scotland Yard gym. He didn’t ask – John never asked where he’d been when he got home from the dirty boxing ring, sometimes bruised, usually not. They don’t talk about exercise in this household, not really. It was like an unacknowledged vice for Sherlock, and now apparently John too.

Sherlock knew that John and Lestrade had been discussing getting fit again; Lestrade because Mycroft’s diet was working particularly well this time and he had some ridiculous fear that his brother might find something better, John because he wanted ‘get his old body back’, whatever that meant. Apparently John had taken up the inspector’s offer to use the Yard’s gym, because his hair was wet and he looked tired. He was holding a plate of jammy dodgers from Mrs Hudson and smiling.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope where he was inspecting shavings of a pigs hoof and put his hand out. “Gimme,” he said in a very un-Sherlockian fashion and John rolled his eyes as Sherlock plucked one off the proffered plate. He put it down on the far bench, nowhere near the pig hoofs and opened the fridge.

“Nothing in. Angelo’s tonight?”

Sherlock muttered his agreeance through a jammy dodger and carefully placed a drop of acid over the shaving, watching it fizzle a delightful colour. He could feel John’s eyes on him but he was busy scrawling note haphazardly without looking in his notebook.

“Want me to scribe for you?” John offered, sitting at the seat near Sherlock. Sherlock wordlessly pushed the notebook and pen towards John and began rambling.

 

 

 

John took the ravioli this time, a big serving, so he must have been hungry. Sherlock picked at his salad and chips, not interested in eating but restless of the mind. John was tiredly looking out the window; his exercise must have really taken it out of him. Sherlock quietly observed the man across from him: his face was creased and tired and his hair dull today, but he still looked like John, even weary. Sherlock saw the glint of John’s dog tags and spoke before he could stop himself.

“Operational Service Medal, two Conspicuous Gallantry Crosses, and a Military Cross. That’s sure something to be proud of.”

John quietly pushed his chair backwards to as not to disturb other patrons, wiped his mouth and step out of the door. His ravioli was only half finished. Sherlock would get it put into a doggy bag. John’s reactions were illogical. Winning medals was something soldiers were proud of, even if the memories of what occurred to achieve them were sad and disturbing. Sherlock had expected John to respond enthusiastically, or at least neutrally. He didn’t expect him to walk out, anyway. Perhaps John was annoyed about Sherlock invading his personal space? Usually John got cross about things like that and confronted Sherlock. It was certainly a deviation from normal behaviour.

This was very puzzling.

 

 

It was kids, this time. Sherlock hated cases involving kids, not because he felt any particular love for them but because John was always _off_ after them. It was a quick solve: the boy down the street had done it: mentally unstable genes from his estranged father, mother absent often due to work commitments, the male victim didn’t want to play with him, he and his sister bore the brunt of an angry boy with no parental figures. Sherlock had figured it out in thirteen minutes and he shouldn’t have brought John to the crime scene; he tensed up immediately and didn’t un-tense until they were in the cab on the way back to Baker Street.

John’s breathing was heavy and he was sighing a lot, but he looked a bit better than he had at the scene. Sherlock needed to get him home soon; he had an early lecture the next morning and Sherlock knew John liked to be at the top of his game for those. The tenseness in his shoulders reminded Sherlock of his army stance, all stiff and wound up like a spring.

“You used to be proud. Something happened. What was it?”

John kindly asked the taxi to stop and shut the door in Sherlock’s face. He was going to get soaked, it was raining out as usual. If he got soggy and then came home he’d never get to sleep and he’d be more susceptible to viruses if his body temperature was low.

“John!” he called out of the window. “John, you’re being ridiculous, come back!”

The man had disappeared into the darkness though, so Sherlock just directed the driver to continue.

 

 

“Sherlock! SHERLOCK!” John was hollering through the house the next morning at 6am and Sherlock stirred on the couch. John was going to wake Mrs Hudson with his racket. Sherlock sat up on the couch and squinted as his dishevelled curls fell into his face.

“What, John?” he said, his voice deep and cracking from misuse. The man himself stormed into the living room half-dressed and stressing his boots off. He paced a little, hand to his forehead in that frustrated way of his.

“Where’s the washing? What have you done with it?” His voice was clipped and angry and Sherlock knew he had a lecture in an hour. He rubbed at his face to clear his still fuzzy brain, waiting for it to click online again, but this just infuriated John further.

“Sherlock, I have a lecture in an hour and I cannot find one sodding shirt! Where the hell are my clothes?” He was panting now, frazzled and panicky.

“You left our clothes at the driers Monday morning, John. Just take a shirt of mine and stop stressing, you’ll be fine.” John swore quite severely at that, realising he had no one to blame but himself.

“I won’t fit into your shirt in a million years, Sherlock, you’re slim as a bean pole!” Sherlock rolled his eyes, brain suddenly switching on and for a moment he was overwhelmed by senses. He quickly did a catch-up process and then bounded into his room and fetched John a button-down that was baggy on him. He thrust it out to John and as John ran out the door reminded him: “Don’t forget Lestrade wants us to go to the Yard to read over his reports for the Thames killer at three!”

“I’ll be at the gym there from midday, I’ll meet you there!” came John’s voice from down the stairs, so Sherlock wandered into the bathroom, and switched his brain to a more important topic – his physical and his _emotional_ reaction to John’s newly forming muscles.

Sherlock was waiting by Lestrade’s office when the inspector and John came strolling down the hall, freshly clean and grinningly tired. The dropped their gym bags on the floor by the door and Sherlock had a sudden urge to go to his boxing ring; maybe on the weekend. They sat down at the desk, Lestrade on one side, Sherlock on the other and John standing and leaning against the desk, and they began to go through the statements. Lestrade and John were joking with each other on an almost annoying level, but a thought struck Sherlock when was signing his statement.

“You have a perfectly good shirt folded in with your fatigues, why don’t you ever wear it?”

Sherlock went back to surveying the crime scene report instead of watching his friend’s back as he left. John _had_ been complaining about laundry.

 

 

 

The night was quiet and they were both sitting in the living room, John reading my firelight and Sherlock gently composing right in front of the fire. They had closed up a case today, but it was a small one; no romantics to reunite, no blubbering mothers or madmen, just a man and his missing dog and an expensive bracelet. It had been a satisfying job, and Sherlock had transferred the money into John’s account before he could protest, so the bills would be paid and John could relax.

A question had been itching all day though, because the woman who owned the bracelet had once killed a man in Tennessee, and Sherlock had never killed anyone, not directly.

“What was it like the first time you killed a man?”

“It was the worst night of my life.”

Sherlock stopped asking John after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter and then I'll start on the next part of the series.


	4. Chapter 4

It was one of those days that foreigners think of when they think of England. It was so wet that stepping out the door was foolish; even murders didn’t happen on these days. The screech of a veering taxi was the only sign that there was even life outside of 221B; the rain was so heavy that it muffled any noise that may have been made outside. Mrs. Hudson was taking an early evening nap with her ‘herbal soothers’ and John was in the bath because apparently he fancied one and a client had given them bath bombs last month (his shoulder hurt).

Sherlock lay swaddled in a blanket in front of the fire, fingers cold from holding the book he was reading up. He really needed to invent an adjustable book holder; it was sell for millions and bookworms everywhere would praise him like a God.

Sherlock heard the bath draining and let the book fall onto his face. The flat had warmed up reasonably but he still stuck his fingers in the blankets to keep them snug. John’s footsteps clunked through the kitchen and he laughed lowly when he saw Sherlock.

“You look like a six foot burrito.” He commented and Sherlock figured he was standing in the archway. Footsteps creaked again, and he moaned.

“My fingers are too cold to read,” he whined, and he could feel John’s presence next to him. He could see, out of the gap between his face and the spine of the book, John’s feet in fluffy blue slippers.

“Hmm, I can’t imagine… _A Guide to Bone Toothbrushes of the 19 th and Early 20th Centuries_ is a very interesting read anyway.” Sherlock turned his head, letting the book slide onto the floor next to him. He looked up at his flatmate with a grim expression. John was wearing at least two undershirts and a flannelette pyjama top under his fleecy jumper and dressing gown. He really should apply a wheat bag to his shoulder before it got worse.

“What do I do then, John?” he said, looking at the man through drowsy eyes. He observed as John strode over to his chair and then let his eyes fall shut – the warmth of his blanket and the fire, the sound of the rain and the comforting presence of John were making him sleepy; he’d be able to nap tonight.

There was a comfortable silence for a while and Sherlock almost dropped off, sniffing loudly every time he was jolted out of drifting by an increase in the rain. John was sitting in his chair and staring into the fire, Sherlock knew because he opened his eyes a little every few minutes. The crackling noises it produced had filled the room and shadows were dancing against the papered walls and Sherlock felt more at home than he had since he was a small child. Then John spoke.

“His name was Dylan.”

Adrenaline coursed through Sherlock’s body and his heart started beating double time, but he didn’t move, knowing John would clam up. Sherlock didn’t even know if John knew he was awake.

“He was a good lad; younger than me and a sight chunkier, too, but he was brave and a solid soldier. He’d have your back in a firefight, that’s for sure. He’d always cover me, too, I was only a Lieutenant back then and he was in my platoon, but he said I was important, he’d always say that. “We fight and you save us,” he’d say, and it was so bloody stupid because I didn’t, not always, but he was a good man.”

John voice cracked and he took a deep breath through his nose. Sherlock squinted and saw that John was leaning forward with his face in his hands, staring at the fire through his fingers. He hoped that John hadn’t lost his nerve because he was dying to hear more. John breathed in again and leant back. “We were taken one day; it was just a routine scout, nothing should have gone wrong. Hell, I shouldn’t have even been with him, but I was getting stuffy being in charge and all, I needed to get out. Cabin fever. You’d know it, you get it worse than anyone I’ve ever met. We must have been there, hmm, two days. We were starving but they fed us water every now and then, God knows why, but then Dylan came up with a plan, a hole in their guard duties or something. I didn’t really get it but I went along with it – don’t be surprised, I follow you around blindly all the time.”

Sherlock hadn’t moved a muscle, and he was almost convinced John thought he was a sleep, or otherwise, didn’t care if he was. John was speaking to him like he knew the reactions Sherlock was having mentally, and did John know him that well?

“We had to be fast though, and Dylan told me to go first, because I was fitter and quicker; draw them out and then double back ‘round and get him. It worked, at least the first part. I drew them out all right, reckon I dodged maybe ten, twelve bullets – they were rubbish shots though – and then one hit a gas tank and the place went up, and he _knew_ , he _knew_ he was never going to get out alive.”

John’s voice cracked and then whimpered this time. This was the closest Sherlock had seen John get to breaking down, other than at Baskerville of course, and he wanted to move but he didn’t. He didn’t because there was more to the story that John needed to tell.

“The thing is, the thing _is_ , he was the one who kept me sane. He talked to me about everything: told me about school and about growing up in Manchester and how he’d played rugby until he realised how bad he was at it, he told me about his wife and his kid and _God_ , he had a family and he _knew_ he was never going to get out of there. He saved me, and for what? I saved only one life the week after. If I was truly brave I would have made him go first, I would have known he was more important than me because he had something to _fight for_.”

Fear coursed through Sherlock then, irrational fear of John sitting in a shitty base camp somewhere dying from a bomb explosion and never coming into his life, and felt those _feelings_ again, the ones that bubbled up when John’s muscles were on display.

“I’ve never told anyone that. All the Cap needed to hear was that he didn’t make it and I didn’t tell anyone, and he was so brave.”

John went to stand, and so Sherlock stirred, pulling himself slowly into standing position so as not to startle his friend, and then stepped forward. He looked down at John curiously, very much in his personal space, and, with the blanket as a cape, wrapped his arms around the man’s figure, enveloping them in in the warmth the cozy quilt had to offer. John stiffened severely but Sherlock just squeezed him a little tighter and he relaxed into the hold, unable to return the hug but laying his head against Sherlock’s collarbone. They stood there for only a minute, but it felt like an age to Sherlock, who had, for once, not analysed this action before performing it. He stepped back when he calculated John had had enough, the captain walked back to the bathroom to complete his evening ritual, planning to go to bed. Sherlock, who hadn’t eaten since he last brushed his teeth that morning, went to his room to sleep, too, but not before putting the wheat bag in the microwave for John to find.

 

 

TBC?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned, this is not the end! I am sectioning this into parts, I suppose, if I continue. Please let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

A temporary chapter just to give a heads up to subscribers that the next part of the series had begun. If you'd just like to click the arrow to the right of the words 'Exit Wound' (:


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